


The Last Supper

by Gaspode5



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Multi, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaspode5/pseuds/Gaspode5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broke, damp and desperate Eskel takes on a seemingly simple monster contract...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Supper

 

 

“We don’t serve your kind here!” The barkeeper clutched the jug so hard I thought it might shatter. In the taproom behind me the silence grew thicker and I felt glares like cold needle pricks against the back of my neck.

“I won’t stay, just wondering if you’ve heard of any Witcher work in the area.”

The man refused to meet my eyes but there was a pause such as one might make when debating what not to say. In that pause I heard his nervously beating heart change rhythm. I also heard footsteps approaching from behind. Two men. The barkeep shook his head. “We have nothing for you. Now leave.”

“Down in Crookend there was talk of people disappearing, said you might know something more,” I persisted.

“He told you to leave so fuck off freak!” Silently I turned and studied the two men that had moved to flank me. Farmers like the rest of them and big men. Stupidity is not a crime but sometimes I wonder. They had hands like shovels and the sort of wiry build one only gets from a lifetime of toil. I had no doubt either of them could punch through an oak plank without batting an eyelid. That would not do much good against a man with a sword though, like me.

Pretending to raise my hands in surrender I curled my fingers into the Sign of Axii. “You have no quarrel with me. Just give me the information I want and I’ll be on my way.” For a moment both men looked puzzled, then they took on that glassy eyed look of the charmed.

“Bah, he’s harmless, leave him be.” The one who had threatened me turned away with a shrug, “Come on, the cards are waiting!” His friend trailed after him, still looking confused. There were angry mutterings from those who had hoped for a bit of entertainment and those clever enough to question what just happened. My respite would not last long.

I turned back to the barkeep who looked like a rabbit caught beneath the shadow of a circling Hawk and kept my voice soft. “Look, I want no trouble. All I want is a bit of information and I’ll be gone.

“Try Great Wolf River. There’s some devilry going on there since last spring.” Bored old geezers, you can always count on them. This one watched me with more curiosity than fear. Seeing he had my attention, the old man straightened on his bench, wetting his lips, “My throat is awful dry...” He cocked an eyebrow at me and with an inward wince I withdrew a couple of coppers from my too skinny purse.

Happily sighing the old man slurped down some of my dwindling money. “Jorge said he saw this trapper, big mountain of a man, or used to be. They found him wanderin’ the outskirts of the town in nothin’ but his drawers. His skin hung off him like he were starved an he wouldna say a word. He wouldna eat or sleep either. Just kept cryin’ like a baby. The Alderman might be lookin’ for a Witcher cause that trapper wasn’t the only one. Summat is drivin’ them crazy up there.” With an eager glint in his eyes the old man leaned forward. “Last I heard they’d found two dead uns, wasted like the trapper but not a mark on them.”

 

***

 

Great Wolf River; the name reminded me of Geralt and his grand nickname, The White Wolf. The Elves started calling him that so long ago both I and Vesemir have called him Wolf for years now. Lambert refuses to, except when he forgets how much he loathes us all. Me, I am just plain Eskel the Witcher and I am grateful. At least it is better than Geralt’s other nickname, The Butcher of Blaviken.

As I looked down on the town that nestled inside a large bend in the river, the smell of turpentine, wood smoke and smoked fish was thick in the air. This close I also smelled the rubbish and the stench of too many unwashed bodies in one place. Sometimes a Witcher’s superior senses are not all they are cracked up to be.

Mist hung like dirty rags across the tops of the spruces. Aside from the deep green of the trees, the world was painted in watery shades of grey. Autumn was reclaiming its territory and soon I would be back at Kaer Morhen to while away the winter darkness with the others.

The drizzle that had lasted days made my wool cloak heavy with water and I could not remember when I last slept in a bed. Even Scorpion seemed tired of it and broke into a trot when we left the shallow ford behind us. Witchers are rarely welcome, except when we are needed; then we are merely disliked. If the old man was right, Great Wolf River had a job for me.

Travellers came through here all the time so with my hood up I drew less looks than my horse. Wooden planks were laid out across the mud and waste which turned the streets into a quagmire and men with hard eyes and calloused hands stalked them. Here the smoke from the wood fires sloshed amongst the houses with a life of its own. The place was not big enough to be called a city but the thriving timber trade and large sawmill had ensured that it had all the trappings of advanced society; such as whores, beggars and drunks.

I found the announcement on the notice board by the town square. _‘Yt has come to owr attention that a fyend is praying on owr goode men. Depriving them of their wyts and strengeth. Harken any Wytcher. 300 Ducats will be ofered. To the one who rids us of this beast.’_   It was written in a rather shaky hand and signed by Frederik the Alderman.

Most of my last coin bought Scorpion a place in the stables on the far riverbank. The stable master eyed him greedily so I made sure he got an even closer look at the two swords strapped to my back and gave him something extra with the promise of more later, to ensure my friend would be waiting for me when I returned.

Whilst the decent people of Great Wolf River hurried off as I approached, the poor did not care, or perhaps even a Witcher is better than some of the things they see in their vodka and Fisstech saturated dreams. I finally found out the whereabouts of Frederik the Alderman from a beggar who’d lost his legs in the war although which one he didn’t say.

 

***

 

“A Witcher? You don’t look like no Witcher,” the Alderman complained, “they have white hair and wolves eyes and great, big fangs!” With this tirade he greeted me in a small but cosy office with walls of wood panelling polished to a honey gleam. It wasn’t the first time I had heard this description of Witchers and I sometimes wondered if Wolf realised how deeply the stories of him had lodged themselves in the minds of the people. I never noticed him having fangs though.

Despite his big boned frame, the Alderman looked like a stiff breeze might blow him away and his large hands were turned into claws by arthritis. I considered telling him that I might have some herbs that would help but decided to see how much he planned to insult me first. Instead I moved so the light from the lanterns fell on my face and planted my hands on the desk. My cloak immediately left little puddles of water on the shiny surface.

He squinted at me and jerked back. I rolled my eyes. It’s long since I stopped being bothered by the fact that the scars on Wolf’s face somehow makes him look dashing whilst mine makes it look like my face have been ripped off and then put back badly. Actually, despite it giving my mouth a permanent sneer, with a mug like mine, I cannot say much damage was done.

The old man rallied, not wanting to let a couple of swords and a nasty scar get in the way of a good complaint. “Your eyes look more like cat’s eyes.”

“Exactly.” Straightening, I crossed my arms and left his mind to work it out.

“Oh...right,” he fumbled to move the papers on the desk away from the water, “so you saw the notice?”

“I did.”

“We’ll pay you 300 Ducats for the creature’s head.”

“I need to know more before I agree to anything.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Now his eyes darted around the room as if he expected to see the monster leaping out of the walls. “It’s...that is...she’s been plaguing us for some time now and some of the men are…” he began wringing his hands, “they are drained. Alf the candle maker lost his mind and is a husk of the man he used to be. The whores are complaining they’re losing business...and...it’s just not decent!” After that rant Alderman Frederik sank back, seemingly exhausted.

“You say ‘she’, so the creature is female?” I already knew the answer. There is a special haunted look to those who have tasted the nectar of a Succubus and then tries to resist more of the sweet stuff.

“I know what she is!” he blustered, “I may be a fool but I’m not stupid,” the air went out of him, “but she seemed so...kind...” ‘Kind’ was not a word I would ever have thought of using for a Succubus but I guess they play whatever part we want, to get what they want. With shaking hands the Alderman brushed his face, as if removing cobwebs. “This cannot continue, just...make sure it’s quick.”

There was a knock on the door but it was shoved open before he had time to speak again. “I heard voices.” The woman who marched in was possibly of age with the Alderman but tall and lean she made me think of knotty wood, like a Juniper staff and just as hard.

“Ah, my petal!” the Alderman quavered, “A Witcher has come for the contract...”

She crossed her arms over her bosom, making the Alderman splutter into silence. “About time! Make sure he kills the abomination. I won’t abide such corruption in this town a moment longer.” There were daggers in her glare towards the Alderman and I didn’t escape them either. “A man,” she huffed, “I would have seen a woman do this.”

“I don’t think there are any women Witcher’s my petal.”

I nodded. “Alderman Frederik is right.”

“More’s the pity, and don’t you petal me!” With that she turned her full attention on me. “So, how would a Witcher escape the lure of that disgusting creature when no other man can?” The word ‘creature’ was spat out.

“Witcher’s have their ways and I have dealt with Succubi before.” I refrained from mentioning it mostly involved a disciplined mind and possibly cold baths. Vesemir had always believed very strongly in disciplined minds, especially when dealing with rowdy adolescents like me and Wolf. In later years I have come to thank him more often than I curse him for it.  Of course, the mutations play their part too. Some say they make us emotionless, no more than soulless golems and little better than the monsters we are trained to kill. This is bullshit. The mutations makes us detached, true, but the feelings are there, you just have to dig a bit deeper and hopefully deeper than a Succubus might. None of this sounded particularly impressive though. “Can you describe her to me?”

“I can’t but he certainly can.” The Alderman ducked away from the Petal’s accusing finger.

 

***

 

Having survived the encounter with the Petal I stepped out into the street. The stench of it assaulted me again but in that stench I found the tantalising hint of cooking. My stomach rumbled. How long since I had tasted hot food? According to the Petal the town had two ins which offered lodgings and a further two doss-houses that were used by the loggers and trappers that came and went. I decided to follow my nose and pulled up the hood against the drizzle.

Succubi. There is all sorts of crap said about them, the most common one being that they are driven by an insatiable lust which they try to slake by bedding anything with a pulse. This one is especially popular with wild eyed preachers whose imagination is overheated from celibacy. The truth is a Succubus is driven by hunger, same as the rest of us. Some might call it a kind of lust I suppose. Succubi feed on the energy expelled by those they lay with. Whilst they have no intention of killing, nor do they have any understanding of how fragile many humanoid species are. Also, ultimately it is their survival or ours. The way it always works.

I have killed as many Succubi as I have sent packing. Possibly the latter have harvested more lives since but somehow I find it hard to care. Being screwed to death by a beautiful female demon beats having your eyeballs melted by Basilisk venom any day.

“Want someone to keep you warm on this miserable night?” In the corner of my eye I caught sight of hair too red to be natural. She smelled of cheap perfume and woman; surprisingly clean but it was early hours yet. My interest was peaked. She was old before her time but false colour or not, her hair was thick and glossy, piled up on her head and making me want to bury my fingers in it. Memories of Triss seeped into my mind like the cold rain that seeped through my cloak; her red hair, her warm smile, her kindness... Pissed off I squashed them. If I was going to take this whore up on her offer I would do it because it had been long since I had other company than my own hand. To take it as an opportunity to reminiscence of might have beens was just too pathetic. Triss’ heart belonged to Wolf these days even if he himself was not sure where his belonged, the idiot.

I pushed back the hood so the light of the braziers illuminated my face. It was only fair to the whore. She gasped and made the sign to ward off evil. Then all that was left was the lingering smell of perfume and the rain. Perhaps I should have waited until we had struck our bargain.

Despite our resilience to poison, Witchers can get drunk, it just takes hard work. After a few years on the Path most of us develop quite a skill in it. This felt like a good night to be drinking and knowing I had some payment coming I splashed out on a bottle of the local vodka the barkeeper assured me was only one very small step away from wood spirit and probably would make me blind. Being almost sensible I also got some stew and bread, neither of which tasted as good as the vodka.

Sometimes the empty space that tends to clear around me in every taproom feels like loneliness but this time I welcomed it. I shut out the noise of people getting drunk, gambling, getting laid and generally being people and proceeded along my own path to oblivion.

 

***

 

“We’re full up. Now piss off mutant!” The doss-house keeper had only briefly paused to note my swords and look into my eyes. I knew he was lying and he knew I knew. Tension speeded his heart. There was an edge of excitement to the stink of sweat that came off him. For a moment I considered breaking his already fairly squashed nose, the town jail would at least be a roof over my head, but even Wichers have their pride. Lambert would have used Axii to charm him into thinking Lambert was the King of Redania or something equally idiotic and then have him grovel, but unfortunately I have principles too.

Like the alcohol on my breath my dreams of a hot bath and a warm bed evaporated. It looked like I would have to make do with another night on the ground, unless I managed to sneak into the stables to join Scorpion. I should have found lodgings before getting sozzled. Stupidly I had thought they were used to all sorts of scum here but apparently even a place like this has an upper scum limit.

The world undulated around me, not quite solid and I had to concentrate on keeping my balance on the planks. Tilting my head back I stopped to let the rain touch my face with cool fingers and drew in a few lungfuls of damp air. Away from the braziers and torches that hissed and spat in the damp, the night was black. As I left more of the light behind, I adjusted my eyes, fading the black to grey until I could see the outline of dilapidated shacks, cattle pens and storage sheds. With my eyes like this, the light that seeped from the stables in the distance seemed almost painfully bright.

I was prowling around, trying to find a way into the hay loft without having to hand over my last coppers to the stable master, when my medallion suddenly vibrated beneath my leather jerkin. It was all the warning I had before the Succubus surrounded me with her scent of female musk, warm spices and perhaps a hint of brimstone. I felt a brush as if from soft fingers tipped with sharp nails against the unscarred side of my face. It made a mockery of the silver sword I had unthinkingly drawn.

“A Witcher, how wonderful!” she exclaimed in a voice of black velvet over skin. It sounded distant, yet near but still I saw nothing except wet timber, mud and the gold of firelight reflected in raindrops.

The effort of stopping my wits from doing a runner made my ears pop. A whisper of soft laughter reached me. “All that power and rage, it’s wasted on mindless beasts.” I snorted. If yearning for a bed and a fire was rage, then possibly I was guilty.

I swear I felt a hand on my chest and I could not tell if my heart raced in anticipation of battle or something else. This was no young Succubus feeding off easy prey. This one was ancient and knew all the tricks I knew, and more. This one I would have to kill, she would never leave such a buffet of the lonely and desperate as this town. “Why don’t we talk about it?” The whisper was warm liquid and something brushed over my lips. Great! Now I had to watch my thoughts as well as my cock. “Come,” she suggested, “it’s too cold and dark here.”

Following the pull of her presence I walked as if in a dream. There was an uncomfortable tension in the pit of my stomach as I fought to keep her out of my head and the rest of my body in check. I told myself that this was easier than to go searching for her lair unaided tomorrow.

I stopped before an opening in the hillside, an abandoned mine I guessed, partially blocked by fallen rocks and so overgrown that had I not had the pull of the Succubus to follow, it would have taken some hard work to find. There was a sigh, right by my ear and like an idiot I raised my sword again, but of course there was nothing there. Succubi have their own kind of magic and this one was powerful.

“I haven’t tasted Witcher for a long, long time.”

What the words evoked had nothing to do with eating actual food. “I’m old and bitter.”

“But so strong… They want you to kill me.”

“Yes.”

“A bargain; let me use you this night and I will never bother them again.” The tug on me became stronger but I hesitated. She read me. “I will not take more than you can safely give.” The irony was not lost on me; this monster would not recoil in disgust at seeing my face. A warm puff of air from the mine carried with it the faintest scent of incense and food. I had nowhere to sleep tonight but ahead lay a Succubus’ lair and they like their luxuries.

 

***

 

Hands unclasped my sodden cloak. They were long fingered with nails not quite long enough to be called claws.  My feet had carried me here even as I still argued with myself. It worried me for a heartbeat, then I brushed it aside. Here the Succubus’ presence was like fog, clinging to me, whirling around me with every breath I took. The tightness in my stomach travelled further down and I fought it by taking in every detail of the small space.

A small cave had been turned into a sumptuous den. Rich tapestries covered stone walls and sealed off drafts; layers of embroidered cushions covered most of the floor and the rest was hidden by a rug of thick wool, woven in colours of autumn and gold. A brazier warmed the air and spread the smell of burning herbs. I did not doubt they were chosen for their scent as much as their ability to cloud the mind. Lanterns that were made from intricately shaped copper which made me think of Zerrikania, spread their light over everything, yet cloaked it in the mystery of soft shadows.

A kiss against my cheek, no more than the brush of a butterfly wing, drew my attention to the creature that seemed to have materialised from these shadows. She was as tall as me, her eyes almost black and dark brown hair cascaded over her back and shoulders. It flowed around the horns that curled over her ears and parted over her breasts like dark water. My eyes travelled further down, drinking in the rounded hips that halfway down left pale skin behind to become fur clad legs which matched her hair in colour. Her cloven hooves were dainty and the tail curved lazily around her knees. The whorls that mark the bodies of some Succubi were pale, almost invisible with age. Perfection is one thing, beauty another. The faint lines of age I saw on her face made her into the kind of woman I could only dream of having.

“Your rage, it’s so strong I can taste it, yet you hide yourself from me.”  Circling slowly around me she studied me, occasionally reaching out, almost touching. I yearned for that touch. “I like mysteries…” There is no greater aphrodisiac than being wanted and a Succubus wants you, no matter your looks, age or gender. ”The people here, they are like sheep, simple and no fun at all.” My trousers were chafing badly now. Everything felt unreal, yet more real than life. “A bargain?” Did I hear her or was it all in my head? I shoved aside thoughts of frightened whores, cranky Aldermen and snotty innkeepers.

“Yes.” I unravelled a bit more.

 

***

 

I was sprawling on the pillows with no memory of how I got there. My swords and daggers were gone and I was stripped to my damp and dirty shirt.  Fingers brushed my face, tracing the scars. When she touched the knotted tissue and irregular furrows that pulled at my skin, the dead nerves prevented me from feeling anything but slight pressure. The pang of loss made me angry; with myself for letting my guard down like a fucking amateur, with her for getting through. Her bones ground together when I grabbed her wrist. She only smiled hungrily. “There it is!” It was a breathy whisper. I recoiled, letting go of her arm and felt faintly sick at the marks my fingers had left there. “This will not do,” she tut tutted and rose, leaving me tottering between anger and regret. “We were doing so well.” There was disappointment in her voice.

A mug of warm, spiced wine was pushed into my hand; I frowned at it, wondering what things other than spices were hidden in its depths, then drank. It’s warmth embraced me and I heard myself sigh with contentment.

When I looked up time had passed and again I had somehow missed it. Her scent fluttered over my face as she kneeled between my legs. All my clothes had gone the way of my weapons but I was cocooned in alcohol and who knew what else and could not be bothered to care. She held a small silver dish filled with white powder but the way she slowly sucked her finger, never taking her eyes off mine, before dipping it in the powder, made the contents seem unimportant. The moment she touched my lips with it, I knew the smell and jerked back snarling. Her voice caressed my hackles, settling them. “It cannot hurt you, you know this.”

It took effort to speak. “But it can give me some really messed up dreams.”

“It will...open you to the pleasure,” she purred, “trust me.” I laughed. I sat in a sea of pillows, naked and vulnerable as a babe in arms. I had no idea of where my weapons were and this Succubus offered me Fisstech and told me to trust her, so I did. With a lingering kiss, she shared the drug with me before moving her mouth further down. I fell...

 

***

 

Her warmth was all around. I tasted the sweat on her skin and breathed her scent. Distantly I heard her cries as she urged me on. I obliged eagerly, I had more to give still and she took it. _Triss smiled at me through eyes glazed with desire, her hair spilling over the pillow like blood. “He stole her from you.”_ The whisper was more felt than heard, as if she spoke straight into my soul. I faltered. “Don’t stop!” Pain spiked through my flesh where the Succubus’ nails raked it, but it twisted into something hot, alive, exhilarating. I surged over her. “More!” she gasped. A stinging slap almost drove the fug from my mind and I found myself staring into eyes wide with desperation and hunger. She dug her nails into the back of my neck hard enough to draw blood as she brought her mouth to mine and I tasted Fisstech and wine.

More words wormed their way into my consciousness. _“He took everything; your mentor’s affection, the skills that rightly belonged to you.“_

“No!” The protest felt feeble; my strength was waning. _“They call for The White Wolf and scorn Eskel the Witcher, always in his shadow, always making do.”_

“I don’t give a shit…” Anger was a tiny, white hot flame deep inside me.

_“Don’t you? Doesn’t it hurt when they fail to see beyond your scars, when they don’t see the great heart beneath? Not even her...”_ Whispered barbs that buried themselves too bloody deep to be yanked out before they poisoned me.

_Wolf sprawled on a throne of monster skulls. It’s shadow stretched across the floor, bleak and cold and pinned me to where I stood. Before the throne people queued to worship. Dryads danced around him, singing his praise, farmers and merchants laid their wares before him, bowing deeply, young maids crawled on their bellies, begging him to choose them. Vesemir stepped forward and reverently placed both the steel and the silver sword at his feet, Lambert followed. They kneeled._

_Fear trembled in my bowels for I knew Evil was coming. I called out to them but they did not hear. Suddenly Alderman Frederik stood in front of me wearing a crown of rose petals. He made the sign to ward off evil and looked at me with disdain. “You call yourself a Witcher, you don’t even have fangs!” I reached for my swords but even as I did I knew they were gone for only a true Witcher had the right._

_Hungrily I stared towards the throne where everybody had joined the Dryads in their dance, creating a spinning circle around Wolf. In my desperation I tried to move forward, only to find Vesemir blocking my way. “You are unworthy.”_

_“It’s coming!”_

_“Let it come! The White Wolf is here.” With those words he turned his back on me and joined the circle of dancers._

_“You will never be his equal.” Triss’ breath was warm perfume on side of my face. It stung, then burned with the fierceness of acid. I clawed at the pain, falling to my knees. Through watering eyes I watched her step past the dancers and stand naked before Wolf. He laughed and pulled her to him. Then he had her right there on the throne, white hair mingled with red in the light of a hundred candles. I saw the glint of his fangs before he buried them in Triss’ chest and all the people cheered. He threw his head back and howled in triumph._

My own howl battered against my ears. Claws dug into me. “Yes!” the Succubus exulted.

We know so little of ourselves, of the cesspool of envy, pettiness and anger that sloshes around in the bottom of our souls like bilge water in a ship. Maybe Lambert’s way is the sensible one after all; spread the venom around on a daily basis until all anybody want is to make him choke on his own fucking sword, so it’s doesn’t build up inside to one day catch him unawares.

The Succubus’ body yielded softly beneath my lashing out. Far away I heard laughter with an edge of madness, hers or mine I couldn’t tell. Somehow her yielding enraged me more. Gripping her horns I shoved her down amongst the pillows and held her. I was the heart of a vortex of rage fuelled lust. Shame stained it as I unleashed it at her, but like the tongue that worries the sore tooth, I could not stop. Her shouts, of pleasure or pain, I didn’t care, drove me on and I spiralled down into a lascivious chaos.

 

***

 

My tongue felt swollen enough to choke me and had glued itself to the inside of my mouth. For some time I just lay there trying to find myself. It wasn’t easy with the Gargoyle that stomped around in my head until I thought it would crack, just as I had done last night. The memory ambushed me and drove me to struggle upright amongst the too soft cushions. I cringed at what I might see.

Replete was the word that popped into my head when I looked at her. She lay outstretched, propped up on one elbow and her tail flung over one hip. There was a blush to her skin I had not realised was missing before. The desperation was gone from her eyes which seemed suddenly filled with soft starlight. The smile she smiled was full of pleasant secrets despite the dried blood on her split lip; had she been a cat she might have purred.

Bruises like grisly blooms on her body became visible as she rose. Through exhaustion and the grandmother of all hangovers, all I felt was shame. Bowing my head I spotted red welts, some of them bloody, on my chest and arms. Suddenly I was aware of a number of tender spots and a memory, distorted by drink and Fisstech, of her sinking her teeth into me, rose to the surface like marsh gas. Flopping back amongst the cushions, I was no longer certain what I should feel.

She pulled me from my navel gazing by returning with a carafe and a mug. Fumbling for words I tried to think of an apology that would not sound too feeble but she put her fingers against my mouth and handed me the mug. It smelled of nothing but clean water so I drank greedily. The Succubus’ voice was soft, tinged with regret, “Now the last part of our bargain...”

 

***

 

I reined in Scorpion at the top of the hill to look back at Great Wolf River. It still drizzled but I had a purse fat with coin and despite the weight of sadness in my chest, I felt lighter than I had for a long time. In a forgotten mine beyond the town, beneath a cairn of stone, lay all that remained of Cyrene, if one didn’t count her head which I had handed over to Alderman Frederik. He wept like a child and I felt some sympathy. This was one trophy I didn’t want to keep despite it being Cyrene who had insisted I would need it to get paid. Witchers too need to eat.

As I turned Scorpion around I spotted an Osprey. Undaunted by the low cloud and rain, it floated on the winds that ruffled its feathers. Slowly it turned and in wide circles, carried by nothing but the air, if flew in the direction of Kaer Morhen. I smiled.

Some writings by a crazed Zerrikanian mathematician states that two negatives makes a positive. I’m the first to admit mathematics are not my strongest point but I always thought it was a load of bollocks. Now I wonder. Is it any stranger than a monster hunter and a Succubus nearing the end of her days, finding a nights solace in the company of each other?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into writing fan fiction on my own. I have spent the past few years writing Dragon Age fan fiction with a friend, which I hopefully will be able to post here eventually. This is something very different however. Just about everything is new to me; the POV, the fandom, the word count (I deliberately kept to a limited amount to force myself to stay 'lean and mean') and the short story format.
> 
> Inspired by both the Witcher books by Andrzej Sapkowski and the games, I decided that Eskel the Witcher deserved some attention. Sapkowski indicates that Eskel is equally as powerful or possibly even more so, than Geralt. Yet he shares none of Geralt's fame. There are also hints of a romantic connection between Eskel and Triss although the games ignores that.
> 
> The specific event in the story is directly inspired by the drinking game Eskel and his fellow Witchers play in the game Witcher 3, where Eskel reveals a slightly unexpected side of himself, depending on the dialogue choices you make.
> 
> In short, Eskel may seem calm, sensible and capable but he has hidden depths and sometimes it gets dark down there.
> 
> I posted this as a pdf on DeviantArt, with a wonderful illustration done by zokwani. To see the illustration, go here http://img14.deviantart.net/2e46/i/2016/081/1/2/the_last_supper_by_zokwani-d9w2j38.png


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